


The Arrangement

by LibraryOfNeith



Series: Love, Friendship and War [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-29
Updated: 2019-06-15
Packaged: 2020-03-27 13:32:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 15
Words: 18,979
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19013920
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LibraryOfNeith/pseuds/LibraryOfNeith
Summary: Stuck in Kings Landing, under the tyrannical rule of King Joffrey; Sansa is thrown together with his unpredictable sworn shield for his amusement. With no other choice, she must try to make the best of things but will she be able to win him to her side?





	1. A Proposal

**Author's Note:**

> Alright. This is my first work so keep that in mind when you read. I'm mainly following the book with a little of the TV show in there. I've aged Sansa up to 16 which is the age of consent where I live but I left the underage warning there in case it's older wherever you're from delightful reader. I know it's a bit weird (don't condone this IRL) but in the books/show and in this fiction it's important for the dynamic of the relationship. I own nothing, just doing this for fun, hope you enjoy. Let's go!

The Arrangement

 

Chapter One – A Proposal

Sansa was summoned to the small council chamber at noon. She rose from her seat by the fireplace, smoothed down the front of her dress and followed ser Meryn. She was suddenly self-conscious of the wear her gown was showing, she was still stuck with the same set of clothes she’d had when she first arrived in Kings Landing even though she was growing out of them and they looked scruffier every day. Perhaps if she were still the King’s betrothed, she would by now have received clothes more suitable for a lady of the court but now Margaery had snatched him up, leaving her as nothing but a glorified hostage – not that she was complaining – she’d rather wear clothes made for five-year-old boys than be Joffrey’s wife. Besides, changing would mean keeping the small council waiting and Sansa didn’t know much; but she knew better than that.

Immediately upon entering the small council chamber Sansa fell to her knees, allowing her eyes a brief scan around the room before casting them to the ground in feigned modesty. There were two things wrong in that room. Firstly: King Joffrey was sitting, smirking at the center of the council’s table. This was unusual as Joffrey took after his “father” in that he rarely attended council meetings. He in fact had very little interest in the politics of ruling, preferring instead to order people to fight to the death for his own amusement. She didn’t like this. Whenever Joffrey wanted to see her it was usually to exact some terrible punishment or humiliation over her. Even with her eyes fixed on the ground she could feel his eyes raking over her body, lingering where her too tight bodice stretched over her breasts. Even the feel of his eyes on her made her skin crawl.

Second was the presence of the Hound. This shouldn’t have been incredibly unusual as wherever the King went his dog was never far behind, but it wasn’t just that he was there, it was where he stood. Instead of taking his usual place a few inches behind Joffrey he stood tall and terrible next to where she knelt. She was gladder to see him than she was her King. She’d heard reports that the Hound had emerged again to lead another sortie at the battle of Blackwater, but she’d also heard reports that Renly’s ghost had joined forces with Tywin Lannister to crush Stannis’ forces so having the evidence before her eyes was a relief. It wasn’t that she trusted him, or even liked him; his horrible half burned face still terrified her, but it was mixed with the knowledge that so long as he was here no harm would come to her – no serious harm anyway. She was however, also very much aware that he could hack a man (or a woman) to pieces with his longsword.

“Sansa Stark.” Joffrey’s nasally, whiny voice sparked a feeling of deep loathing within her. “My small council and I have spent long hours deliberating what’s to become of you now that you’re thankfully no longer to be my wife. Who would have thought that such a little girl – the daughter of a traitor – could cause such great trouble for great men?”

 _I see no great men only rats_ she thought. “It pains me to trouble you and your council-men your grace, unworthy as I am” she said. Satisfied with her self-loathing Joffrey continued:

“However, I have found a solution, and a generous one for the likes of you.” Sansa could sense the unease of everyone around her. His mother and other councilmen struggled to reign in his worst impulses but where Sansa was concerned no man could stop the King from ordering his men to beat her, strip her, and humiliate her.

“You will be wed to my dog.” Everyone in the room tensed up at those words, except for Joffrey who was grinning manically and the Hound who stood as stone: silent and unyielding.

“T – to Sandor Clegane my King?”

“It seems only fitting that my wolf breed with my dog” he replied, laughing hysterically at his own joke. He was the only one laughing. Sansa could not have said how the Hound felt, he would not meet her eyes choosing instead to keep his eyed fixed on the wall, but she felt as if the bottom had just dropped out of her stomach. The thought of being wedded and bedded was already nerve racking without it being to one of the most fearsome men in Westeros. He had shown acts that could have passed as kindness; rasping at the King to stop when he’d had her beaten for her brother’s victory, advising her to keep her head down and do as she was told to avoid abuse, and she hadn’t forgotten that when the crowd had attacked her at the bread riots, he alone had gone back for her. And yet, he had saved her by pulling a man’s arm off, and she would never forget the night he’d held a dagger to her throat. It had been a brutal reminder that though this man had protected her, he could just as easily rip her to pieces. Gods, when he’d yanked her to him, she thought he was going to rape her. Or kill her. Perhaps both. Perhaps he had meant to. Now he could. It would be within his rights as her husband.

\---

She visited Dontos that night in the gods-wood to tell him of the potential snag in his plans. The poor fool looked fit to weep when she told him of her betrothal, though perhaps it was the wine that brought on the surge of emotion. He always stank of wine.

“My poor sweet Jonquil!” He cried so loud that Sansa feared he would bring the guards crashing down on them. “Do not fear my sweet, for soon I shall whisk you away from this cursed place and from that brute as well.”

“It doesn’t matter where you whisk me off to!” she snapped back. “Wherever you take me I’ll still be his wife; in the eyes of gods and men I’ll be bound to him.”

Dontos put his hands on her shoulders in what was meant to be a comforting gesture but had Sansa recoiling at the stench of him.

“Do not lose heart sweetling, it will not feel so binding once you are in different parts of the seven kingdoms. There’s hope for you yet.”

 _How do you know? You don’t have to share a bed with a brutal killer!_ She dodged his clumsy attempt to kiss her and swept back to her room. With the door safely shut behind her she allowed herself a scream in frustration. She was about to marry an unpredictable man who could rip her head off just as much as cradle her close, and her only hope of escape was a drunken ex knight and some mystery benefactor who couldn’t even get her out before the royal wedding. But somewhere between her frustration and anger came a soft voice echoing Dontos’ words: there’s hope for you yet. It seemed now that her only hope was that the Hound would repeat some of the gentility and consideration that he had shown her before, but she didn’t know how strong that hope was. Whether he was kind or cruel he was always the King’s dog and a soldier for house Lannister. If they were not her friends, she couldn’t imagine he’d be either. Little bird. She could hear now his rasping voice and mocking tone: a harsh tone but a tender name, rather like him. He could be harsh or tender towards her but she could never tell what he was going to be. She sank down next to the fire, pulling her knees up to her chin and wishing she could curl up so small they’d never find her and she wouldn’t have to marry anyone.


	2. Dresses, Cloaks and Weapons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa prepares for her wedding and reflects on what she knows of Sandor Clegane whilst trying to resist the urge to punch Cersei in the face.

The silk ran over her skin like spring water – a dark, earthy green that flowed loose but still shaped her tall, willowy frame. It was the fifth gown that she had tried on that day and as relieved as she was to have clothes that fitted, she felt like she was about to collapse beneath the weight of all the cotton, wool, silk, satin, and jewels.

“Stand up straight girl.” Queen Cersei said sharply. “You’re not a child anymore so don’t slouch like one.” Sansa lifted her head and straightened her back as Cersei scrutinised her.

“You’re developing an attractive body: long legs, slender waist, your breasts could be bigger though…” She rolled her eyes as she saw Sansa blush. “You’re going to have to lose some of that precious innocence – the Hound certainly won’t treat you like an innocent.” The thought of what she was referring to made Sansa squirm. Cersei smirked, amused at her discomfort.

“I’ve seen the way he looks at you.” _The way they all look at me._ Sansa was not so ignorant as to not notice the lustful stares cast upon her by the men at court. The day Joffrey had her stripped in the throne room she had learnt how it felt to be observed by someone who wanted her.

“I doubt you’ll have time to completely take off your gown before he takes you, like a filthy dog.” Hound. Dog. She noticed that no one ever just called him “Sandor”, at best he was “Clegane”. She supposed she would have to call him that when they were married. Once she had time to reflect, she had managed to find a way to calm her anxiety. Marrying a man who she knew was capable of some decency at least was better than marrying a stranger, or, gods forbid, a man like Joffrey. It wasn’t ideal but she now knew the worst it could be – and it definitely wasn’t him. Still, with the day drawing ever closer anxiety was beginning to fill her again. Sandor Clegane was an unpredictable man. Which of the men she had seen would he be on their wedding night, gentle and caring, or crude and hateful?

Sansa glanced at herself in the mirror and was taken aback. She had always been told when she was younger what a pretty young thing she was, but she’d never felt beautiful until now. She knew this could be an advantage. Cersei had always talked about what she called a “woman’s weapon”, and Sansa had observed grown men fall at her feet for no other reason than her beauty. Whatever else the Hound may be, he was still a man and therefore susceptible to this weapon. The trouble was; she didn’t know how to wield it.

“Better try the wedding gown now.” One maid unlaced the green silk dress while the seamstress brought forth the wedding gown. It was surprisingly simple: a deep crimson with a little gold embroidery, Lannister colours she thought bitterly. But other than that, there wasn’t much to complain about. The fabric was light and fastened at the front as was the southron style, meaning she could slip in and out of it quickly – something she was sure her lord husband would appreciate.

“It’s a simple gown but it will be a simple wedding. Joff wanted a grand affair with as many people as possible to witness your humiliation but the Crown cannot finance another big wedding and I certainly can’t organise another one so there will be a small ceremony in the Red Keep’s Sept. No feast.” Sansa expected Cersei wanted her to be disappointed with this but in truth it was a relief. The girl who came to King’s Landing would have been thrilled at the thought of a glittering celebration, with hundreds of witnesses watching her in her opulent wedding gown, saying her vows side by side with her gallant betrothed in the grandness of Baelor’s Sept. But the woman who now resided here saw the reality behind the illusion. She knew that an extravagant wedding would mean hundreds of witnesses sniggering at the little beauty being wed to a great hulking monster of a man. Whatever awaited her in her marriage she was glad to at least be spared the ridicule of the courtiers. She would have liked to have been married in the godswood; the presence of her father’s gods could have given her strength, but she was being married in the south and on their terms, and she didn’t think strength was a desired feature in her.

Cersei brought forth her maiden’s cloak: a grey direwolf running on a white field. At least the north would be in there somewhere.

“And of course, Clegane will give you his cloak at the end of the ceremony – when you enter his house.” _Won’t be the first time he’s given me a cloak though._ Sansa would remember the night that Blackwater burned until the day she died.

She had run back to her chambers to find him lying in her bed; covered in blood and sweat, and stinking of wine. He had pulled her to him, pressing a knife to her throat and demanding a song. In her panic she could only remember the first few verses of the Mother’s Hymn. She was so scared to sing; she thought any movement from her throat would cause the steel to slash across and spill forth her blood. Yet, the dagger remained poised at her throat in the Hound’s surprisingly rock steady hands. When she’d finished, he had still clung to her, but Sansa had sensed more need from him than rage… for what, she could not tell. Tentatively, she had raised a hand to cup his cheek and found it wet with tears, or sweat. The idea of a man as fearsome as he weeping like an infant girl in her lap was still beyond her comprehension. He had offered to take her away that night, but in the confusion and fear she hadn’t come up with an answer and he had crawled out of her bed before she could think to give him one. When she’d finally plucked up the courage to look out of her drapes he was gone, leaving only his white Kingsguard cloak crumpled on her floor. Believing it to be the last she’d see of him, she’d bundled herself up in his cloak, letting his remaining warmth engulf her until the morning when her fool of a Florian had found her to tell her of sorties led by Tywin Lannister, Sandor Clegane, and Renly’s ghost that had crushed Stannis Baratheon. The name “Sandor Clegane” made her sit up sharply.

“And where is Clegane now?” She ‘d asked, feigning coolness.

“With the King I expect.” Dontos answered flippantly, going on to cry of salvation, forgetting completely that the people who had prevailed had been the very people she was trying to get away from.

And now Sansa slipped on another cloak; the white and grey of house Stark clashing against the crimson and gold of house Lannister, creating a striking effect.

“There now, isn’t she the most beautiful bride?” The seamstress gushed to Cersei, who merely nodded in approval. And who would this most beautiful bride be marrying? Right now, Sansa felt like she was betrothed to two different men. To the Hound: the fearsome beast who had looked on while Joffrey’s guards beat her bloody and held a dagger to her throat; and Sandor Clegane: the man who had called out for the beating to stop and had wept on her bed as she sang the Mother’s Hymn to him. There was no way of telling until after she said her vows, and it was something Sansa both anticipated and dreaded finding out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much to everyone so far who's read this and left comments. This is my first time posting on Archive of Our Own and it really means a lot


	3. the Man at the Altar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa spends her first night with Sandor as his wife.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ask and ye shall receive, here's the third chapter. I know I've spent a lot of time thanking people but thank you again for all your support. I was overwhelmed when I checked my account and I saw all your lovely comments and kudos.

It was late in the afternoon when her handmaidens came to prepare her. They gave her a good scrub in a hot bath then brushed and dried her hair until it shone like an angry red flame. They powdered her cheeks to give them more colour, filled out her lips with a glossy pink paint then braided her hair and pinned it on top of her head in an intricate arrangement. Sansa winced as the pins dug into her scalp but her maids brushed her hand away when she tried to adjust them, saying that she might pull the arrangement apart. They then laced her into her small clothes, a thin white shift, then tied her into her wedding dress. She thought it somehow felt heavier than before. Lastly, they fastened her maiden’s cloak around her shoulders. When she looked at her reflection, Sansa thought that she looked stunning and solemn. When she was a stupid little girl, she thought all brides glowed with happiness on their wedding day. Now she wondered how many of those smiles were genuine. Sansa knew that Joffrey would take pleasure from seeing her unhappy, and she wasn’t going to give him that pleasure. So, she painted on as wide a grin as she could and set off towards the Sept.

\---

It was in the early hours of the evening when she arrived at the Sept. Joffrey stood, smirking at the entrance.

“What are you doing here?” Sansa asked, realising too late the bite that was in her voice. Joffrey scowled at her.  
“I’m here to give you away.”  
“But you are not my father.” His scowl deepened.  
“You have no father, and I am your King. Anyway, it’s fitting isn’t it? Once you would have been mine, but now I give you away to my dog.”

He was trying to scare her, or insult her, she knew. But she was still a lady, even if she was a traitor and a hostage, and she would not take it. She met his cruel eyes with cold ones of her own.

“I would rather walk alone than be led by you.” 

He blinked, clearly not expecting such a direct answer, then she saw that expression on his face. The one he wore whenever he was about to have her beaten. But he apparently decided it wasn’t worth it if he was to have his revenge on her later, so instead he answered:

“You don’t have that choice.” 

So, when the door to the Sept opened, she entered on his arm.

Sandor stood waiting for her in front of the High Septon. He looked better than usual: his hair was washed and brushed, and his worn and battered armour had been replaced by a fine black doublet and breeches. As Sansa walked, she took note of who was there: all of the Lannisters, and on the other side: the Tyrells. Clearly the Lannisters wanted to demonstrate their power and ownership of her, as if the Tyrells could ever hope to steal her under their noses!

Sandor said the words flatly and without emotion. When Sansa said hers, she tried to keep the tremor out of her voice. When the time came to remove her maiden’s cloak, Joffrey deliberately fumbled with the clasp so as to give her breast a good squeeze before removing it. The High Septon was good enough to look away so that his sovereign could grope her to his satisfaction, if Sandor noticed he gave no indication. She was relieved when Joffrey finally pulled away but still felt a little pang as she watched him carelessly discard the cloak to be replaced with Sandor’s: yellow with the three dogs of House Clegane. Finally, the vows were sealed with a kiss: small, chaste, almost sweet. Sansa looked up at him in surprise. She didn’t know what she expected, perhaps something a bit more intense and searing.

As there was to be no feast and there were so few guests there was no real point to a bedding ceremony. Joffrey was still eager to rip off her dress but his uncle Tyrion protested:

“How in seven hells are my little arms meant to carry a girl that tall.” Olenna Tyrell added in:  
“Don’t be ludicrous! I’m to old to even attempt such a beast of a man!”

Sansa had no great love for either of them, but in that moment, she wanted to wrap her arms around them both and kiss them. The idea of Mace Tyrell and Tywin Lannister unwrapping her like a sweet was unpleasant enough but if Joffrey got his hands on her, she wasn’t entirely sure she’d make it to her marriage bed with her maidenhead intact. But when her lord husband placed a hand on her arm, all thoughts of a bedding ceremony immediately died and he led her away unmolested.

\---

Sandor led Sansa up the serpentine steps, through a mess of corridors – all the while the stares; some sympathetic, most mocking, stuck to her like leeches. Eventually they reached a door which opened into a medium sized and simply furnished room. He already knew where it was, of course. Everyone seemed to know more about this wedding than her.  
The roaring fire combined with the angry orange light of the setting sun gave the room a warm glow. The furnishings were fairly basic: a large bed, recliner, changing screen, and a small table on which stood a flagon of wine with two glasses – which Sandor immediately went for.

“You want some?” He rasped holding the glass out to her. When Sansa tried to speak, she found her throat had closed up, so she just shook her head.  
“Too bad. It would make this go easier.” He replied, downing his own glass in one gulp and turning to pour himself another.

At hearing his words, she felt an icy grip seize her. She tried to shake it off, reprimanding herself for being a silly little girl, but it was no use – the fear was clinging to her, and only tightened his grip as Sansa tried to steel herself for what was coming next. She could sense Sandor walking towards her, and as he stopped just behind her – both of them now facing the bed – she could feel his hot breath on her neck. He suddenly seemed twice the size he was at the Sept, looming over her like a monster in one of those ridiculous stories she used to love so much. She felt his fingers lightly touch her shoulders and her whole body tensed, tears starting to sting in her eyes.

He must have sensed her tears, for he turned her face to look at his; the fire casting a flickering light over the burned half of his face, making him seem even more sinister. And yet, the thumb that brushed away the tears from her left cheek was surprisingly soft.

“Do I frighten you that much little bird?” His normally coarse voice was, again, surprisingly soft, forcing her to lean in to hear him.  
“Don’t take it personally.” She sniffed. “I’d be scared no matter who was here.”  
“Suppose that’s true enough.” He answered.  
“I just… I’m not ready for… this.” She gestured uselessly towards the bed. “I don’t know what to do.” Something came over his face then, an expression she didn’t recognise on him. Sadness? Guilt? Pity? He stepped away from her then.

“It’s alright, you don’t have to do anything.” He crossed the room and lay down on the recliner. “This’ll do me just fine, I’ll leave you alone tonight.” And then he turned his back on her and started to drift off. For a while Sansa just stood there, unsure of what to do. Then she tiptoed back to the bed and pulled the drapes to give herself some privacy so that she could undress. She slipped off the cloak and dress and struggled out of her smallclothes, curling up in her shift. She allowed sleep to take over with nothing but Sandor’s steady breathing, interrupted by dream-ridden mutterings to disturb her.


	4. The Morning After

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sandor and Sansa start to settle into married life... but is it enough for them?

Sansa woke to the harsh light of day streaming across her face as her handmaidens yanked back her bedroom curtains. Across the room, Sandor rose from the recliner, rubbing sleep from his eyes and cursing the bright morning light.

“Give us a minute.” He snarled at the girls who jumped and scurried from the room. He stumbled over to where she was sitting and, using a bedpost to prop himself up, leaned over her and whispered in her ear:  
“Your little flock are going to tell the Queen I didn’t fuck you last night.” Sansa thought she’d be used to his foul language and crude manner but she still found herself blushing furiously.  
“Why should she care whether or not I still have my virtue? It’s not as if I still have to save it for the King anymore.” She hissed back.  
“Still a stupid little bird.” Frustration edged into his voice. “I may not be a Lannister but I still belong to them. So long as you’re married to me, they will have a hold on you and they want to make that grip as tight as possible. They’re not going to risk the Tyrells nicking you over some bloody technicality.” _Oh._ She hadn’t thought of that. She’d thought that since the Lannister’s hadn’t wanted Joffrey to arrange the marriage, they wouldn’t want it to be consummated.

“When Cersei asks why I didn’t take you just say I had too much wine and couldn’t get it up.” Sansa was confused for a moment, then she remembered the vague details her septa and her mother had given her over the technicalities of sex. Once he was sure she understood, Sandor stumbled out of the room, Sansa staring at him in surprise. Perhaps she’d underestimated him; he may be drunk, violent and rude, but Sandor Clegane was no fool.

\---

It was just as Sandor said. Later that day Sansa was summoned to Cersei’s chambers. She sat – frightening and lovely – with a glass of Dornish red in her hand. She wore one of her vast collection of crimson gowns: the skirt of which ran out in all directions across the floor; and the neckline of which sat comfortably just below the top of her breasts. Sansa had chosen to wear one of the gowns she had provided, hoping it would be interpreted as an expression of gratitude: the light pink, satin one with a constrictively modest neckline, the skirts of which draped and gathered together at the floor. Sansa noted, not for the first time, the difference between her and this much more powerful woman. And yet they’d had similar beginnings – Cersei had come to court an innocent girl with dreams of romance and nobility, but had been hardened by her experiences at the hands of men. Perhaps this was where Sansa was headed; a cold, bitter person who could not see beyond her own loathing.

“Well? Why didn’t he have you?” She certainly wasn’t beating around the bush. She deliberately cast her eyes down in an effort to look embarrassed.  
“We, we tried Your Grace b-but he had had so much to drink and he couldn’t… couldn’t…” She trailed off to allow Cersei to fill in the blanks herself. She gave her a peculiar look.  
“He must have had quite a bit to drink if he couldn’t arouse himself in front of you little dove.” _Gods maybe she isn’t fooled_ Sansa thought but then she continued:  
“You may have been spared last night but don’t get used to it. I’ve seen the way the Hound looks at you, he desires you greatly, and I don’t expect he’ll waste time getting his cock inside you.”

But she was wrong. Sandor didn’t ask her to lie with him that night or the next. He did cut his hand and squeeze some blood on the sheets between her legs to create the illusion, but other than that, he didn’t even share her bed. Some nights he’d be on guard duty, but when he wasn’t, he would stay up late drinking or training then come back and collapse on the recliner, or sometimes just the floor. Sansa was grateful to him for not pressing himself on her but felt rather guilty for turning him out of what was essentially his own bed. She’d tried to tell him that she would not mind them sleeping together, but he gave her a sharp look that said the matter was closed. It was funny: he was extremely careful not to touch her. He wouldn’t even brush past her in the hallway, and once, on one of the rare occasions that they were in the same room, she had asked him to pass her a piece of cloth for sewing. He’d passed it to her but had held it at the edge to keep their fingers from touching. It was as if she was on fire and he was scared of catching. She supposed that she ought to be thankful; most wives could not expect this level of consideration and… gentility… was it? But if she was honest with herself, it had been a while since she’d experienced any intimacy or contact (Joffrey didn’t count) and she found herself craving a little human touch. Not anything sexual, but something. She lay awake most nights, waiting for him to stumble back. She found sleeping on her own colder when she shared a room with someone, but usually fell asleep before he returned. He got up early in the mornings, meaning she woke up the same way that she fell asleep, and the way that she spent most days: alone.


	5. Sweet Dreams

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa and Sandor start to grow closer together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a short one for you today. Should probably warn you it contains some freaky imagery so proceed with caution.

Sansa felt dizzy, confused. She appeared to be standing on the steps of the Great Sept of Baelor but she couldn’t remember how she’d gotten there.

Screaming.

People all around her were screaming. All except for the man kneeling a little away from her. She couldn’t see his face, but she knew he was her father. She tried to reach him but the crowd pressed in around her, squeezing and choking. With a jitter her father got to his feet, and she realised with horror that he had no head, but when he turned, she could feel him looking right at her and she knew that he knew. 

Terrified, she tried to turn and run away but a fist grabbed her hair and pulled her back. For a moment she feared it was her father’s decapitated body, but when the fist turned her head, the cold eyes of ser Meryn were boring into her. He slammed a fist into her stomach, and then a boot came in from the other side; cracking against her ribs, then the crowd took hold of her: their filthy hands tearing and scratching. She cried out; sobbing, begging, pleading them to stop. Suddenly she felt another pair of strong hands take hold of her shoulders and she clung to them – believing them to be the hands of her saviour. But when she looked up, she saw the bloody stump where her father’s head used to be and he was shaking her and yelling at her – “Girl! Little bird, c’mon…

Wake up girl! Little bird! SANSA!”

Sansa jolted awake. Her throat was raw and sore – she’d been screaming. She could also feel hot tears still sopping wet on her cheeks. But when she felt her sides for bruises or cuts there were none and the hands gripping her shoulders weren’t those of her father’s bloody corpse but of Sandor: alive and head still intact. He must have woken her when she started screaming.

“Seven hells girl! You were screaming fit to bring down the whole fucking keep. I thought someone had snuck in and attacked you.” 

Sansa shook her head, still struggling to catch her breath.

“No, no, it was just a bad dream.” He nodded understandingly.  
“Aye, well, I know better than most what bad dreams can do.” His tone had quickly softened. “You alright now?” She nodded weakly, but when he moved away her hand darted out to clutch his arm. He looked up at her in surprise.

“Would you stay with me? Please?” She didn't want to be alone again. He regarded her for a moment, as if he was trying to work out what trick she was playing on him, but after a moment he conceded.

“Alright, if you want.” She shifted over to give him space, and when he lay down, she leaned into him, resting her head in the crook of his shoulder. He tensed up for a moment but then relaxed and brought his left arm up to encircle her waist. And they drifted off to sleep like that; one of the first things they’d done together since they’d gotten married.


	6. Something New

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa makes some new discoveries

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Got some lemony goodness here, don't read if you're a foetus.

Sandor no longer felt obliged to take a different bed. The first night after the nightmare he’d approached their bed warily, but with a reassuring smile from her, he got in beneath the sheets and settled down next to her. He made no attempt on her though, despite the proximity. This was confusing and a little frustrating for Sansa – she knew he’d taken pity on her that first night, but that didn’t explain now why he didn’t touch her at all. She was no longer so afraid of him that she burst into tears whenever he came near her. She didn’t think that she was entirely ready to… be with him; but lying next to him each night, and also seeing this more tender, considerate side to him had awakened strange new feelings within her.

She still couldn’t cuddle next to him in bed like she had that first night. She couldn’t even lay a finger on him without him tensing and rolling away from her. But just lying there in the dark, knowing he was inches away from her was an inexplicable thrill. There were some mornings when she would wake up to find that she’d rolled over in her sleep next to him, or him to her. They would be lying there; a bundle of intertwined limbs with her head rested on his chest, gently rising and falling with his breath. She liked this better than just lying next to him, it made her feel more… married. But this position didn’t just give her a short, sharp thrill: it sent a long, low ache throughout her body, culminating just below her lower stomach – in a place Sansa did not think an ache could be.

But she didn’t have time to figure out what it was, as when Sandor’s eyes snapped open, he’d grunt and lurch up out of the bed, leaving her with nothing but pillows to hold.

Sansa was finding this increasingly frustrating. She knew that he wanted her. It wasn’t just her ache that she’d noticed in the mornings: often she would wake up feeling something long and hard poking into her side, and she knew enough about sex to know what that meant. _Couldn’t get it up indeed!_ And she knew what Cersei was talking about when she spoke of the way he looked at her. Even before they were married Sansa could always feel his eyes on her, now that she had linked that with what she woke up to on most mornings, she realised that Cersei was right about one thing – Sandor Clegane desired her. Yet he still avoided her as if she were riddled with greyscale. She didn’t want him to throw her on their bed and fuck her bloody but a little more intimacy, just a little, wouldn’t be the end of the world.

As Sansa sat in her bath that evening cleansing her body, she contemplated her new discoveries. Septa Mordane had only ever given her the briefest outline of what went on in a marriage bed when plans were put in place for her and Joffrey. She knew that when a man wanted a woman his manhood went hard, so she guessed this… wetness must be the female equivalent, which could only lead her to one conclusion: she desired Sandor Clegane. Sansa paused at this. She had fancied herself in love before: the first time with Joffrey; the second time with Loras Tyrell, but she recognised them now as mere girlish fancies. What she felt for Sandor – she couldn’t really call it love, she was now more cautious to throw herself into the affections of a man, it was more that she was drawn to him. Was this what lust felt like? She didn’t even know a woman could feel lust. She’d only ever been told that sex provided pleasure for men and children for women, she never imagined that she could feel pleasure too, especially not for a man like Sandor. Although knowing what she did now she supposed it was not impossible to be attracted to him. He definitely was not handsome (even without the scars) but there was something rather impressive about his colossal size and stature. _Is he big in other places?_ Sansa squirmed at the thought. She knew it was not ladylike to think about a man’s private parts, but thinking about them anyway made her feel rebellious, even a little powerful. But that part wasn’t what she liked best about his body: it was his eyes. His eyes were his best feature. Those cold grey slates that burned icily in his anger, the intensity of his stare on her that she could feel even when she couldn’t see him. It used to scare her but now it sent little electric pulses through her body.

Listing Sandor’s best features wasn’t exactly helping her ache go away, and no matter how hard she tried to think of something else it just kept persisting until her whole body seemed to be on fire. Hesitantly, she slid her hand beneath the surface of the water and kept going down until her fingers brushed the surface of her mound. Trying to see if she could find a release for this burning inside of her, Sansa worked her delicate fingers in and around her lips until she found a little nub that under even the slightest touch sent sparks down her legs and up her body; drawing a small gasp from her. Eyes widening, she rubbed that little nub again – but harder – and this time the sparks seemed to shoot farther and brighter. She rubbed it again and again and again, back and forth, in little circles, the sparks shooting into each other to become a single flame that burned brighter and brighter each time she rubbed that heavenly little point in her mound until all of the insides of her body were on fire. Sana’s pupils dilated, her back arched, and her legs stretched away from her busy hand… and then her muscles became undone and she collapsed back into the tub, water seeping out over the sides.

Gingerly, she crept out of the tub. She dried herself off, brushed her hair out until it shone, then dressed herself in a nightdress and robe. Softly and quietly, she sat herself down in front of the fire and thought about what she’d done. Her mother and her septa had always taught her to behave with modesty, and that bad things happened to wanton, shameless girls. She wanted to be ashamed of what she’d done but she couldn’t bring herself to be because in truth, it had been glorious. It had felt so natural, she’d never known her body could ever feel that good. But there was still something missing. The ache was gone but was replaced by a feeling of emptiness that she knew only a certain someone could fill. Because what she had experienced had been new, new and wonderful, but not enough.


	7. Question and Answer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After contemplating her feelings, Sansa decides she's ready to change her relationship with Sandor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now what you've all been waiting for! Again: adult content, don't read if you're an innocent.

It had been a while but the fire was still burning bright when Sandor finally appeared in the doorway.

“You should be in bed little bird” he growled, shutting the door behind him.   
“I couldn’t sleep” she replied gazing at him intently.   
“More bad dreams?” His scarred face looked concerned.   
“No, I just wanted to see you.”

The concern on his face was replaced with curiosity as Sansa patted the spot next to her.

“Sit with me”. Sandor apprehensively sat cross-legged next to her, keeping a good distance between himself and the fire. He looked at her as if any moment she was going to bite his head off, and when she reached out to place her hand on his he jerked it away, as if he’d been slapped.

“What do you want from me?” At that question, all the frustration that had been building up inside of her flared up.

“I think a better question would be: what do you want from me?” she snapped back. “You’ve barely said two words to me and I can’t touch you without you snapping my head off, and don’t try to tell me that you don’t want me because I see the looks that you give me and it’s the same look all men have when they lay eyes on me so why won’t you come near me?”

There was a pause in which her words stood suspended in the air for a moment, then she saw that white-hot flash of anger in his cold grey eyes.

“Want you?” Sandor spat back at her. “Of course I want you! I’ve wanted you since I first set eyes on you. But I’m not a fucking monster like Gregor, I’d never take what’s not mine so I tried to push you away but you kept getting in my way. The night we were married you broke down crying and said you weren’t ready so again, I kept my fucking distance – which is more than you could hope for from any other man here – I acted like one of those chivalrous knights you love so well, all the while wanting to pin you to the wall and hammer into you until you scream. Only now you’re having a go at me for trying to preserve your honour and spare you pain. Is there no way to please you?”

The angry flash in his eyes mirrored the frustration in Sansa’s. On another level she knew he had a point; she’d been absolutely terrified that first night, so of course, he’d been wary about getting too close. But she was still angry that he’d presume to know what she wanted without actually asking her.

“Well surely the fact that I let you into my bed and bloody well tried to hold you close would be a sign that I wanted something more.” The look of anger on Sandor’s face was replaced with one of caution, and just a little excitement. He believed he knew what she wanted but he couldn’t be sure.   
“And what do you want Sansa?”

For the first time that night, Sansa was lost for words. She knew what she wanted, she just didn’t know how to say it. Sandor took the pause for rejection and he started to get up but she caught his arm. He looked at her in surprise as she raised herself up on her knees and leaned in to catch his lips. The kiss started off feather light, barely more than what he’d given her at their wedding, but as she moved away, he caught her again with something fiercer and more wanting. His hand moved to the back of her head to hold her there and she moved herself to better fit her lips to his and deepen the kiss. She wrapped her arms around his neck and he moved his other hand to the small of her back, pushing her body closer to his, then his tongue was parting her lips and roaming her mouth. This surprised her at first, but she soon caught on and started moving her tongue too; around his mouth, across his teeth, and then intertwining with his tongue, revelling in the feeling of intimacy as their lips and tongues locked and his hot breath mingled with hers.

He broke their kiss suddenly and she was about to protest, when he started soft little caresses across her jaw and down her neck and onto her collarbone. She was sitting astride his lap now and both his arms were hugging her waist, and then his hands moved across her hips and down her upper legs. At some point he’d removed his gloves and the blissful feeling of his bare hands against her skin caused a sigh to escape her throat. Her sigh was met with a growl of approval and before she had time to collect herself, he grabbed the ends of her nightdress and pulled it off in one swift motion. Now naked as her nameday, she blushed and felt a little exposed; especially with his hungry eyes roaming her body. But he cupped her cheek and brought her eyes to meet his.

“Don’t be ashamed, you’re beautiful” he whispered. She nearly cried right then and there; no one had ever called her beautiful and really seemed to mean it. He kissed her again, deep and intense, then moved his lips to the top of her breasts. He took one teat in his right hand and brushed the nipple with his thumb, sending a bolt through her, like when her fingers had stroked her nub. With that jerk of approval, he took her other breast in his mouth and sucked hard at it. The intoxicating mix of pain and pleasure collected in her throat and came out as a guttural, sensual moan that she never knew was in her. She couldn’t keep the sound back. It wasn’t just the sensations his attentions created, it was the intent behind them: every kiss, every touch, every squeeze, every suck was designed to worship her body, and her. No one had ever shown her such reverence before.

Somewhere at the back of her mind emerged the urge to do the same for him, so she started fiddling with the fastenings of his armour, desperately trying to loosen it. She heard a low chuckle in her ear.

“I can remove it better on my own girl” he laughed, disentangling himself from her embrace to undo the straps and knots and cast aside his armour. Once that was out of the way, she snuck her hands underneath his shirt and pulled it off over his head like he had with her, marvelling at the vast expanse of muscle, scars and skin that was his upper body. She drank in the sight of him as he removed his boots then knelt before her, only his breeches remaining. She crawled towards him and placed one hand on the nape of his neck and the other across his back, then kissed him long and fully; wrapping her tongue around his, then withdrawing to place chaste kisses all across his face and neck; pecks from his little bird. She glimpsed surprise in his eyes when she kissed the burnt half of his face but she took his chin between her thumb and forefinger, gazed into his eyes and said:

“Don’t be ashamed”. He smiled at that and took her in his mouth for a kiss so heated and passionate, she didn’t notice he’d unlaced his breeches until he took her right hand and wrapped it around his cock.

She broke the kiss to look at the most intimate part of him. It stood long, straight and erect. Apart from the bush of black hair at the base it felt smooth and silky beneath her fingers. He guided her hand, showing her the way to move, twisting in a rhythm and motion that he lapped up. She felt sure she was working him to release when he suddenly flipped her over. He did it so quickly that for a moment she was confused until she felt him position his cock at her entrance. The knowledge caused a faint flutter of panic in her chest: she wanted to touch him, kiss him, feel him, but the thought of him inside her was still daunting. She placed a small hand on his massive chest but that was all it took to stop him.

“Not yet, please. I’m not ready.” He nodded understandingly then kissed the nape of her neck and said: “Don’t worry little bird, there’s more than one way to pleasure a woman.”

She blinked, not entirely sure of his meaning but soon didn’t need to ask as his kissed trailed down her breasts, stomach, then the top of her vagina. She gasped as he took her in his mouth: his tongue finding that sweet spot that had undone her earlier. His tongue swirled in and out of her, across her lips and over her nub, sending her higher than she’d ever been before: her hand’s clutching Sandor’s hair, urging him on until fireworks exploded in her mind and Sandor caught her hips as her body spasmed, until she relaxed again. He took her in his arms and rolled over onto his back, not bothering to get up and walk those last few feet to the bed.

She’d had her fill but she didn’t want tonight to just be about her. He’d shown restraint for her sake so she decided to give him something that would give him the same sort of pleasure he gave her. _There’s more than one way to pleasure a woman_ , that must apply to men too. So, raising herself up next to him on her elbow she took his stiff cock in her hand. His eyes snapped open in surprise then rolled back in ecstasy as she moved her hand the way he’d shown her earlier. She heard him moan and say something like “you learn fast”. She continued these motions, gradually building up a rhythm, spurred on by the sounds of: “Oh, oh yes little bird like that… yes, gods little… Sansa… SANSA!


	8. One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As they get to know each other better, their relationship continues to flourish.

The weeks that followed were weeks of undisturbed bliss for Sansa and Sandor. Although they had to restrain themselves during the day, for it would not please the King to know how well his intended humiliation had turned out for both of them. The knowing looks and smiles behind the eyes were enough to keep them going until sundown, when the door to their chamber were finally closed, blocking out Joffrey and his guards, Cersei’s scrutiny, and Varys’ little birds… leaving them to cast off the masks they wore at court and just be with each other. Their room became a little undisturbed haven, an island in the middle of a stormy sea.

They spent the nights getting to know each other better, both externally and internally. They sought new ways to pleasure each other; learning what they both liked and trying new things. Sansa even used her mouth on Sandor like he had the first night they were together. At first, she didn’t understand why any woman would want to do this, it just didn’t seem the sort of thing a dignified person would do. But as she slid her tongue over his length and listened to his moans and gasps, she couldn’t help but be pleased that it was her that was making him feel this way. And when he reached his climax – calling out her name in the moment of release – and his seed filled her mouth, she felt like she could feel every muscle in his body as they tensed and then relaxed as he came down from his orgasm. As she looked at him, lying back on the bed exhausted by what she’d done to him, Sansa felt incredibly powerful, that she knew exactly what to do to make the man they called “the Hound” putty in her hands.

But they weren’t just closer in a physical sense, they’d also taken the time to learn more about each other. They spent all evening in bed, or sitting by the fireplace, swapping stories of the pass, sharing details of each other’s days and making fun of everyone and everything. Sansa asked Sandor how he ended up in the service of such monsters as the Lannisters, which was the night he told her about his sister: Elinor. He told her of how she was the sweetest thing in that whole bloody keep, of how she’d nursed him while he was recovering from Gregor shoving him in the fire, and how she’d died for her efforts.

“People say she died under mysterious circumstances.” Sandor snorted contemptuously. “Nothing mysterious about it. Gregor killed her. He chucked her off the battlements.” He was getting more and more angry, but there were also tears. “He killed her just because she showed me kindness, helped me after he burned me. She died for my sake and I never did anything to help her.” That was when he broke down. He fell into her arms and she held him as he wept.

Another night Sandor asked her how she’d ever been mad enough to want Joffrey for a husband. That led her on to confess about how the day her father had told her he was breaking off their engagement she’d ran to Cersei and told her of her father’s plans, effectively causing his arrest and execution. Then it had been his turn to hold her. She’d said between choked sobs:

“You must think me so stupid.” He stroked her back and replied   
“No, not stupid. Just not used to the way things are in this stinking cesspit.” He then took her head in his hands and looked her in the eyes. “I know what evil looks like, I’ve looked it in the eye many times. That’s not what I see when I look at you. I see a sweet, kind girl who’s been caught in a den of lions and has had to grow up very quickly. Yes, you did something very stupid, but you didn’t directly cause your father’s death. Littlefucker had already paid off the gold-cloaks to arrest your father, there was nothing you could have done at that point to help him.”

Sandor telling her that took an unbelievable weight off her mind. So much so that in that moment she thought she loved him. But she wasn’t sure of it till the next night when, while lying sated in his arms she decided to ask him about the night of the Blackwater.

“You said you were leaving. You even left me your cloak. Why didn’t you leave?” He paused before he answered and she could tell that what he was about to say pained him. “The urge to leave, it was just from the panic of seeing that goddamned wildfire. I hadn’t even planned where to go, the only real reason I wanted to leave was to get you away and after you turned down my offer, well, where was I to go?” Sansa felt a surge of guilt at that. _I should have gone_ she thought. _If I’d left with him, we could be together now and far away from here. Stupid girl. Stupid, stupid little girl._ She rose without a word, went to her chest and pushed the contents aside to get to the bundle at the bottom. She sat down before him and spread it across his lap, revealing it as the cloak he’d left her that night. Sandor’s eyes met Sandor’s in astonishment.

“You kept it.” Although he phrased it as a statement, Sansa knew it was a question so she answered:   
“I didn’t go that night because I was scared of you, yes, but there was some part of me that cared for you. I realised for the first time that beneath the scars, the hate, and the violence, you were just a man broken and filled with rage and hurt. I kept the cloak to remind me of that and to remind me to pray for you, and to pray that you found something to still the rage.” She leaned forward and rested her forehead against his. “I should have gone with you that night, but I’m here now and I’m yours.” He wrapped his huge arms around her in a soft, but emotional embrace. He buried his face in her auburn locks and she felt him turning his head and bringing his lips to her ear.

“I love you.”

She brought his face down to meet hers; their lips a hairs breadth from each other.

“I love you too.”

Sansa had never been closer to Sandor than she had been that night, and yet it still wasn’t close enough. She now possessed his heart as he possessed hers, but physically, no matter how much she touched, kissed and embraced him he was never close enough – until she came to understand that in order to gain the physical intimacy that she so desired, she would have to take him inside of her.

That night, when he’d finally finished his duties for the day and returned to their chambers, she didn’t allow him to say or do anything before she threw her arms around him and crashed their lips together in a fierce possessive kiss. _Mine_ she thought. _You’re all mine and there’s no way anyone can take you from me_. He stumbled back at first, but then regained his balance and lifted her by her bottom as she wrapped her legs around his waist.

He carried her over to their bed and threw her upon it. They unwrapped each other like presents; their desire clear in the rapidity of their movements. He kissed her again; her tongue racing through the now familiar caverns of his mouth. He slid his hands between her legs and started working his way up, but she took him by the wrist to get his attention. She wanted him to know what she wanted of him and she wanted to do it now before her nerves got the better of her.

“I’m ready.” She said, her flushed face suddenly serious. “I want you fully.” She could see the hopeful glint in his eye, but he wanted to know she wasn’t just doing this on a whim.   
“Are you sure?” he rasped, scrutinising her.   
“Yes” she replied “but please, be gentle.” He brought them both up so they were both sitting on the edge of the bed.

“I’ll be gentle little bird, but it’s still going to hurt. There’s no way I can stop that. I’ll go slow and give you time to get used to it but there will still be pain. So, are you still sure you want to do this?” Sansa gave him a long look to show that there was not a trace of doubt in her eyes and nodded.

Sandor was right. It hurt. Both her mother and Septa Mordane had warned her of the pain and the blood that came on a woman’s first time, but she hadn’t expected that sharp sting as he tore through her maidenhead. But, true to his word, he’d stopped and waited until she was ready to continue. She was still tight so the next thrusts had hurt, especially as he thrust harder and faster as his lust took over. But as she’d relaxed and her body adjusted to his length and girth, she found herself enjoying this new feeling of intimacy, and with her husband fully sheathed inside of her she finally had the closeness she desired, as if she were truly one with him.

Despite this, she didn’t peak. The sensation had picked up towards the end but he had peaked before she could get close enough. It didn’t matter though, he finished her off with his mouth; he knew she loved that. And now she felt truly married to him. It was the same feeling she had the night they’d said they loved each other. They washed the seed and blood off each other and settled down to sleep in each other’s arms. Nothing more needed to be said or done. They were close enough now to know the thoughts and feeling they had for each other. As Sansa drifted off in Sandor’s arms that night, she couldn’t help but remember the part in their wedding vows:   
“One heart, one mind, one soul, one body.”


	9. Fear

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just as everything's been going so well; Sansa finds a potential complication in their relationship.

Sansa woke: head streaming; stomach lurching. The combined effects of sleepiness and nausea caused her to stumble her way to the nearest basin into which she promptly vomited. She knelt there; retching up into a washing bowl for what felt like an eternity before it finally ceased and she sat back, gasping for air. Behind her, she heard Sandor stirring as he realised that she wasn’t lying next to him.

“Sansa?” he called out quietly.   
“Here” she replied weakly. “I don’t feel well.” He immediately crossed the room to where she was sitting and gently tilted her face up to look at him.   
“You look very pale, but you don’t have a fever.” He gathered her shivering body in his arms and she allowed herself to relax against him. Tenderly, he laid her down on the bed and gave her a white chemise to cover herself. He put on some breeches and a shirt, and when her handmaidens arrived he gave the bowl of sick to the girl he liked least and instructed the other two to bring a maester.

“That’s not necessary, it’s probably just my moonblood coming.” Sandor bristled, as most men do when the subject of moonblood was brought up.   
“I’m not taking any chances” he answered briskly and Sansa couldn’t help but smile to herself as she tried to get comfortable. She still thought that he was making a big fuss over nothing, but it was still nice to be worried about.

Unfortunately, the maester that attended her was Pycelle, something neither of them were happy about. But he wouldn’t be sent away, saying that the Queen had sent for him specifically. So, she endured his poking and prodding, all the while with Sandor glowering at him in a corner, almost daring him to touch her in the wrong way. Eventually he scuttled off with samples of her blood and urine to see if they would produce any results.

Sansa had been feeling tired, nauseous, and a little moody - as she always did when her moonblood was due; but the days went by and she found no telling red spots in her smallclothes or her sheets. Yet the sickness continued. Every morning, and some afternoons, she’d come over all dizzy and have to run to find the nearest bowl. But in between these sudden flushes of nausea she felt absolutely fine, if a little lethargic. What was most unusual though, was her change in taste. Sandor had sent some lemon cakes to cheer her up, but when she took a bite, she found the taste bitter and horrible and couldn’t keep them down.

Just over a week after he first examined her, Pycelle returned to her; telling her that his results found nothing, much to Sansa’s dismay. The sooner this cursed illness was discovered the sooner it could be cured.

“Tell me my dear, have you been experiencing any other symptoms apart from sickness?” he inquired in a deceptively feeble old voice.   
“Well, I’ve been feeling rather tired and irritable. Also, I don’t know if this is significant, but nothing tastes good anymore. All the things I used to like taste revolting now.” A knowing look crept into Pycelle’s eye.

“What is it? Do you know what’s wrong?”   
“I believe I have a diagnosis my dear. I hate to ask you a personal question…” _Hah! I’m sure you do_ Sansa thought. “But when was the last time you had your moonblood?”

Sansa turned a deep shade of crimson.

“I don’t know m-my lord…s-even, eight weeks maybe.”   
“It is overdue then?”   
“Yes.”

The Grand Maester chuckled and patted her hands in what he probably thought was a comforting gesture. She supressed a shudder.

“My lady, you are not ill at all. You have nothing to fear. I’m delighted to tell you that you are with child.”

Sansa froze.

Sansa had a child growing inside of her.

 _You have nothing to fear_ he said.

_As if!_


	10. Sandor's Vow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After making a huge discovery, Sansa and Sandor discuss what they're going to do next.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's taken me a while to upload, been busy with proms and concerts. Here's some more romantic goosh for you. Enjoy it while it lasts... angst is coming.

Moon tea! Why in all the seven bloody hells hadn’t she thought of moon tea? Sansa couldn’t believe that she’d been such an idiot. She’d thought herself incredibly grown up being wedded and bedded, yet she’d acted like a stupid lovesick girl and failed to take basic precautions. She’d just been swept along with the wonder of these new experiences and hadn’t stopped to think. The past few weeks had been amazing as she’d become more and more used to the feeling of Sandor inside her; she’d even managed to peak for the first time with him thrusting inside her, and since then the connection between them had just kept building.

But now she’d messed everything up. Sansa knew that Sandor wouldn’t be angry with her, but she couldn’t imagine he’d be delighted by the news. He didn’t seem to take too kindly to children – which she couldn’t blame him for as the only child he’d spent a significant amount of time with was Joffrey. He wasn’t a fatherly man. He was a warrior. And she doubted he’d ever thought about getting married before Joffrey had thrust her upon him, let alone starting a family.

Regardless of how he felt, Sansa was terrified. Septas wittered about the magic and wonder of motherhood, but she knew better. She knew that pregnancy was long and exhausting, it had only been eight weeks and she already felt sick, tired and miserable. And then there was childbirth. Even the septas couldn’t find anything good to say about that. She could still remember the night her mother had given birth to Rickon. She remembered how her screams had made a terrible echo throughout the castle; she remembered how she and Arya had huddled together, listening in anguish as their mother’s cries became so pained, they were sure that she would die. That was a distinct possibility in the birthing bed. And now, she didn’t have Arya or her mother, Arya was probably dead and her mother was half way across the Seven Kingdoms with her brother. Sandor was all she had and he wouldn’t be allowed in the birthing room. The “Wonder of Motherhood” be damned: she wasn’t ready.

\---

Sandor knew something was wrong as soon as he entered their chambers. In one swift motion, he crossed the room to where Sansa was sitting, taking her hands in his, and sat opposite her.

“What is it?” he asked, concern prominent in his voice. “Have you heard back from Pycelle?” She nodded timidly. “And? What did he say?” Sansa steeled herself before she replied.

“He told me that I am with child.”

Sandor looked confused for a moment, almost as if he didn’t understand what she meant. Then, as the news sank in, a sombre expression cast a shadow over his scarred face. She found tears that she’d been holding back since Pycelle had given her the news suddenly overwhelming her, and she broke down sobbing as Sandor pulled her onto his lap.

“I’m sorry” she stammered out between sobs.  
“what for, little bird?”  
“For not being careful. I should have drunk moon tea.” He sighed and gently kissed her forehead.  
“I don’t blame you, we both made a mistake there. But I doubt you’d have gotten any if you’d asked, babes are the best way to secure a marriage.” He pulled away from her slightly so he could look her in the eye. He took her hands and said:

“Sansa, I can’t pretend I’m dancing a jig at this news. This isn’t a good place to raise a child, and I’m also not the kind of man who would make a good father: I’m violent, bad tempered, and have a filthy mouth. I’ve always known the kind of man I was and for a while I didn’t mind; I was better than some, and most people didn’t care if I drank or swore, just so long as I could hack a man to pieces on their command. But then there was you. You cared. You wanted me to be a better man. You believed I could be a better man. At first, I mocked you for it, thinking you were trying to turn me into a gallant knight from a fairy story. For a while I hated you for it, and now I love you for it. You have already made me a better man, but now we have this to face, and now I vow to you that I will strive every day to become the kind of man who will be a good father, and that so long as I live no one will harm you or our child. Or I’ll kill them. I can’t spare you the pain or danger of bearing a child. But whatever comes, we’ll face it together.”


	11. Two Royal Visits

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa and Sandor are given a harsh dose of reality.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warning: this chapter contains description of sexual assault. If this is something you wish to avoid I'll leave these marks; ***, at the beginning and end of the passage so you can enjoy the rest of the chapter without having to read something that upsets you.

Sansa had been summoned to Cersei’s chambers. As she scurried across the Keep behind ser Osmund, it occurred to her that that she was always summoned to Cersei but Cersei never came to her. She guessed it was a demonstration of power; showing Sansa that she was at her beck and call and that she could order her wherever she liked. She wondered, with faint amusement, how Cersei would react if she were summoned to Sansa’s chambers, but then she glanced ahead at ser Osmund striding in front of her and decided she could live without finding out.

Cersei beamed beautifully upon her entrance, took Sansa’s hands in hers, and kissed her on both cheeks.   
“Ah, my little dove! I understand that congratulations are in order. Forgive me for giving them so late but I’ve been so busy organising the Royal Wedding that Pycelle couldn’t find the time to tell me” she said sweetly, as if she hadn’t been told the same day Sansa had – but Sansa just smiled meekly and graciously thanked her for her good wishes.   
“I must confess I feared this day would never come; your lord husband seemed to have such a hard time bedding you.” Both of their smiles became a little strained, and a silence stretched awkwardly between them before Cersei finally continued: “Still, he clearly managed it eventually and that’s what counts.”

She stepped back to get a good look at Sansa. Her dress had become a little tighter: she was ten weeks in now and had been filling out.   
“We’ll have to get some new clothes for when you begin to show, little dove.” Although she still had that sickly smile on her face, her emerald eyes were glinting evilly. “Joff was right about one thing, you do cost the crown a lot.” Sansa bowed her head as she always did to make others feel powerful.   
“I am grateful to your grace and good King Joffrey for all that you’ve given me, you are more generous than I would ever have thought possible.” It always helped to appear pious and reverent before Joffrey but his mother was less easily fooled.   
“Yes, keep singing those saccharin little songs you sing so well.”

She sat down on a plush velvet couch and patted the seat next to her. Sansa sat down cautiously next to her; part of her expecting one of the guards to slap her for presuming to sit next to the Queen, but that didn’t happen. Instead, Cersei clasped her hands once again and looked into her eyes; the sharp green tearing through the soft blue as if she could read Sansa’s thoughts.

“I want you to tell me truly child: are you afraid of what’s to come?” That caught her off guard. Sansa racked her brain but couldn’t think of any song to chirp back, besides Cersei asked for the truth, so she pressed her lips together and nodded. Cersei nodded back understandingly.   
“Good, there’s no shame in that. I wasn’t afraid at my first pregnancy – more the fool I. I’d always been told what a wondrous and fulfilling thing childbearing was and how blessed I should feel to bear the King’s own heirs. Of course, I was surrounded by idiot maids and septas who didn’t know the first thing about having children so no one told me the true extent of the pain.” She gave a little snort and continued “men can take all the battle wounds they like but nothing will ever compare to the pain of giving birth.” She paused, then smiled before her next words:   
“But, when it was over, and I was given this little squealing bundle as a reward for my efforts, all that didn’t matter. I looked at the babe; all pink and covered in mess and I’d never loved anything more in my life.”

Cersei trailed off. For a while she just sat there smiling – not a mocking one or a falsely sweet one – a genuine smile. And for a moment the woman looked so truly beautiful that Sansa couldn’t help but smile too. Then Cersei blinked, the smile disappeared, and the moment was gone. Her eyes met Sansa’s again, suddenly serious.   
“I want you to know this so you’re more prepared than I was. It will be long, hard, painful, and there’s a great deal of danger involved. But if you get through it, you will love that child more than all your family and friends put together.” She kissed her on the cheeks again then sent her on her way.

When Sansa got back to her chambers, she allowed herself to smile once again, subconsciously stroking her belly. Surprisingly, she’d found Cersei’s words to be a source of comfort. She was still scared of what was to come, but if what she said was true then she might have one more thing in this world to love. _You will love that child more than all your family and friends put together._ Sansa couldn’t imagine loving anyone more than she had loved her father, or her mother, or more than she loved Sandor now. And she still didn’t think she was ready to be a mother but she knew that she would find it in her to love this child. She and Sandor both. It would not be an easy life in Kings Landing, but its life would not be short of love.

She heard the door open behind her and turned still smiling, expecting to see Sandor… but her smile immediately turned sour when she saw Joffrey standing before her.

“My lady Sansa!” he gushed, his teeth glinting as his lips pulled back into a hideous grin.

“Y-y-your grace” she stammered, sinking into a curtsey.

***

“Up” he ordered and her head swam as she sprang back up. Was that the nausea of pregnancy or the fear of being in the presence of the person she detested most in this world? She had to stop herself from vomiting when he grabbed her arms and yanked her close to him.

“I came to extend my good wished to you and my dog: I hope that many pups will follow.” He made no attempt to hide the sneer in his voice.

“You are most k-k-kind your g-grace.” She was stammering so badly she could barely get any words out. Joffrey still had that grin; he had the same evil glint in his eye as his mother.

“Oh, I know, and I shall be kinder still.” She stopped shaking and stood completely still: a cold marble statue. An icy feeling had her in its grip. _No. Old gods and new please spare me this_.   
"Clearly my dog has broken you in for me, but I won’t have you yet, I’ll wait till after my wedding. I wouldn’t want to dishonour my lovely bride, but hopefully the brat won’t ruin your lovely figure” he hissed; one hand digging his fingers into her hips, the other kneading her right breast. She closed her eyes and tried to keep from screaming. For a moment, she was terrified that he’d changed his mind about waiting but eventually he released her.

***

As he was about to leave, the door opened and this time Sandor did enter. He looked momentarily surprised but then dropped to one knee.

“Rise, dog” Joffrey said haughtily. “I just came to extend my heartfelt congratulations to you and your wolf bitch.” Sansa tensed. She could sense his rage but thankfully, he managed to choke back his anger and nod coolly.

“I’ll see you both in court.” With that, he swept from the room.

Sandor turned and slammed the door behind his liege lord. He slowly turned back to Sansa, his eyes asking what words couldn’t. She saw no point in trying to spare him; he’d see the bruises on her hips and breast, but she couldn’t bear to put it into words. Even if she found the words, she couldn’t have said them – her voice was already choked back with tears.

Before she could collapse, Sandor caught her and held her as she sobbed into his chest. After what seemed like an eternity – but still not long enough – she managed to stutter out:   
“The wedding. We only have until after the wedding then he’ll… he’ll…”   
“No. He will not touch you.” His arms tightened around her. “I’ll fucking kill him if he tries!” Normally, such vicious words would have comforted her but now they had precious little relief.   
“You won’t be able to stop him. If you kill him, they’ll take you away from me.” She wrapped her arms around his massive torso, clinging to him, scared that if she let go then soldiers would drag him away before her eyes. Sandor had gone very quiet. He seemed to be deep in thought. Eventually he whispered – as if the walls themselves were leaning in to listen:

“Then we’ll go.”

Sansa lifted her head from his chest.

“Go?”   
“We can’t stay here, little bird. So long as we’re in Kings Landing our lives are not our own, I don’t think they’ll be our own anywhere in the seven bloody kingdoms. So, we’ll sail across the narrow sea and run far away where they can’t touch us.” They stood there, in each other’s arms. And for a moment, it was as if the walls of the Red Keep had collapsed; crushing Joffrey and Cersei and all the others underneath, leaving them standing alone amongst the rubble. Then Sansa closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and nodded.

“How are we going to get out?” She saw a look of uncertainty cross his face.   
“I-I’ll figure something out.” In the back of her mind she could feel something niggling her, as if she’d forgotten something. Then something snapped, and she realised there was something she still hadn’t told him. Something she hadn’t even thought about in months. Something that might be an issue if they wanted to leave.

“Sandor, if we’re going to escape there’s something we need to take care of.”


	12. The Truth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There are some loose ends that need tying up.

Sandor strode in angry silence behind her as he followed her to the godswood where Dontos was waiting for her. She could sense his rage at her, but instead of doing what he usually did – shout and swear until it was spent – he remained in a tense, supressed silence. Sansa hated that. She wanted him to let his anger out, or at least to say something. Not silence. Silence wasn’t peace. Silence was the calm before the storm.

But for now, she had more important things to worry about. Sandor was determined to find out who her mystery helper was, and why they wanted to help her. He refused to believe that whoever it was, was helping her purely out of the goodness of their heart.

Dontos swayed slightly when he stood to meet her. His intoxicated smile soon turned sour when he saw the figure looming out of the darkness behind her, and Sansa couldn’t help but feel a twinge of delight at the fear her husband struck in other men’s hearts.

“Good evening ser Dontos. I believe you know my lord husband: Sandor Clegane” she simpered in a voice oozing courtesy, as said husband strode forward and grabbed the drunken fool by the collar of his shirt before he could even turn to run.

“WHO DO YOU WORK FOR?” Sandor thundered, as Dontos squealed like a stuck pig and the stench of shit mingled with the sharp odour of wine. “I’ll not ask you again you sorry pric. Who ordered you to meet with Sansa?”   
“I s-swore to him I w-wouldn’t tell” he whimpered back.   
“And I swear if I don’t get an answer I’ll spill your guts, cut off your head, and stick it in your belly you fat fucker!”   
“Lady Sansa please” he sobbed desperately.   
“Answer him” she responded coolly as Sandor took one hand off his shirt and drew his dagger.

“LORD BAELISH!” Dontos screamed. “He…he offered one thousand gold dragons if I befriended her and smuggled her out of the city on the night of the royal wedding.” Sandor dropped Dontos to the ground and looked down at him in disgust.   
“Littlefinger” he spat. “That’s your mysterious benefactor little bird.” Sansa could find no words and just gaped at him.   
“Why would Littlefinger want me?”   
“Do you expect me to know the mind of the sneakiest sewer rat in all the Seven Kingdoms?” He snapped his attention back to Dontos who was squirming on the ground, trying to sneak away. He turned him over with his boot, and in one swift motion, stuck his dagger into his throat.

They both stood there for a while, watching his life blood leak away, then Sandor turned to her and said:

“Go back to our rooms, make sure no one sees you. I’ll take care of the body.” Sansa nodded, then wordlessly turned and made her way back.

It was a few hours before he returned. He immediately crossed the room, filled a goblet to the brim with wine, not even glancing in her direction. She stood there awkwardly – not knowing what to do or say – just watching him as he downed his glass then poured himself another. Sansa wanted to speak, to ask him if he was angry with her and if he was, why wasn’t he saying anything? But something told her that she might just have to wait until he decided he wanted to speak.

After he’d swallowed his second glass, he turned to look at her; his eyes betraying no emotion, no hurt, no rage, just cold blank slates. He finally broke the silence by growling:

“I snuck the body out of the keep and dumped it in the Blackwater. Dontos had a reputation for being a drunkard, so if anyone finds it, they’ll assume he got into a tavern brawl and that whoever fought him got rid of the body.” He paused, before continuing; “Why didn’t you tell me?” She swallowed, not entirely sure how to answer.   
“I, I was going to, I wanted to. I just… didn’t know what to say.”   
“How about; _I’ve been in contact with someone who wants to take me away and could give us a chance to get out_ _?_ ” Irritation edged into his voice.   
“I didn’t know you wanted to leave.” He laughed at that; a cruel, grating laugh.   
“What, it didn’t occur to you that maybe I was getting sick of doing the Lannister’s dirty work and being kicked when I didn’t obey? Still a stupid little girl.” She winced at that, she hated being reminded of how sill and naïve she used to be.   
“I’m not stupid. I’m just cautious. You never talked about running before…”   
“So, you thought I’d strike you down if you asked” Sandor concluded for her.   
“You never seemed to have a problem with the others striking me down” she bit back. Sandor flinched, as if she’d just hit him. He looked at her with a pained expression.   
“You know I was powerless to stop them; you know it hurt me to watch them do that to you.”   
“Not as much as it hurt me.” He breathed in sharply, shielding his pain with cold hard malice.   
“I promised you that the next man to hurt you would be a dead man, do you really think I’d ever want to hurt you?”

 _No_ Sansa thought. _I know you’d never…_ but her words caught in her throat and all she could do was stare at him in horror. Taking this as a slight, Sandor turned from her, saying:   
“Perhaps you were planning to leave your doggish brute of a husband behind.”   
“No!” Sansa caught his arm as he tried to walk away. “I wasn’t planning that at all, I’d never leave you. I’m sorry; I know I should have told you about Dontos, but it wasn’t that I didn’t trust you, I know you’d never hurt me. I just… I didn’t know what to do…” Her words were running into each other and she realised she was babbling, but it didn’t matter. Sandor had heard everything he needed. Her words died down as he cupped her face and kissed her firmly on the forehead. She noticed he had blood on his neck that was running down to his chest, and got one of her maids to draw him a bath.

As he climbed into the steaming water, he suddenly turned, scooped her up and brought them both into the tub with a splash. Sansa laughed and pretended to be annoyed at him for ruining her dress, but he simply shrugged and said “if it’s ruined anyway…” and ripped it off and tossed it onto the floor. The laughter died down a little when he saw the finger marks that Joffrey had left on her waist and right breast, but Sandor washed all the pain away by tenderly kissing and sucking them; covering them with his own marks. He then started to massage her teats, circling her pink buds with his calloused thumbs, before running his mouth over both of them. Sansa gasped and arched her back; driving her breasts further into his mouth. She could hear him chuckling softly – which also created a pleasing sensation against her chest: he knew how sensitive her breasts had been since the pregnancy, and had been giving them extra attention; delighting in the reaction he elicited.

As he continued to lavish her breasts, she rubbed warm water over his chest; washing Dontos’ blood off, then bent down and pressed hot, open mouthed kisses on his neck. A new urge came over her, and she took him by surprise by biting down on his shoulder. He gave a cry and pulled her back from him. They stared at each other, and for a moment Sansa wondered if she’d gone too far, but then he started laughing; a warm, deep laughter. Relieved, Sansa pressed her forehead against his, joining in his laughter. Sandor’s hand travelled down and started rubbing circles around her clitoris. Sansa gave a soft whimper, bringing her legs onto both sides of his so she was straddling her husband, then pushing down onto his erect penis. They built up a slow, languid, almost lazy rhythm; moaning into each other’s mouths, the feeling of the warm water helping the feeling of bliss they’d cocooned themselves in. Soon, with Sansa picking up the pace, and Sandor’s attentions to her nub, they peaked together – grasping each other as they rode out in unison the overlapping waves of pleasure they were both overcome with. By then half of the bathwater was on the floor.

Sansa turned around and settled herself on top of him, with her back against his chest and strong arms encircling her. For a while they both just relaxed there. What little water there was left was less than lukewarm but they didn’t care; they had each other for warmth. After some thought, Sansa said:

“Littlefinger had the right idea to smuggle me out during the wedding. Everyone’s eyes will be on Joffrey and Margaery so it’ll be easier for us to sneak out.”   
“You’re right” Sandor murmured in agreement. “I’ll book passage on a ship for that night and we’ll leave some time during the feast.”   
“Where will we go?”   
“I want to take you north.”   
“We can’t go straight to the North, when they discover we’re gone that’s exactly where they’ll expect us to go. We should hide out somewhere far away until the search dies down.”   
“Somewhere across the Narrow Sea. Not Braavos: Westerosi sailors are always coming and going there. How about Pentos?” Sansa considered for a moment. She’d often read about the exotic cities in the eastern lands with their spicy food, colourful buildings, beautiful weather, and stunning women dressed up in all manner of extravagant clothes. The part of her younger self that still existed in side of her jumped up and down with excitement.   
“Pentos sounds good. We could stay until the baby comes.” Sandor’s hand moved protectively over her belly.   
“Aye, until then. Expect your family will want us to divorce when we finally get to them.” She paused for a moment, to let the words sink in, then slowly turned around to face him.   
“Sandor, no one will ever separate us. I know my family won’t be happy about our marriage but I’ll make them understand. Even if they don’t understand, they can’t just divorce us; we’ve slept together, we’re going to have a child together and that’s something they can’t undo. I love you, and no matter what Robb and my mother say or do, they cannot change that.”

Sandor stared at her in wonder, not needing to say anything but “I love you, so much.” Sansa grinned and crashed her mouth against his as he scooped her up, climbed out of the tub, and carried her over to their bed where she doubted they’d leave till morning. She couldn’t believe it. This was actually happening. They were leaving. She was going home. _I am going home._


	13. Empty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Devastating news reaches Kings Landing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just wanted to let you know that this chapter contains some pretty heavy angst as well as Joffrey being a gross little shit so - again - proceed with caution.

It was late afternoon and the sun was shining directly through her bedroom window into her eyes. Sansa winced and tried to shut the drapes but she just didn’t have the energy for it. She didn’t have the energy for much anymore. Exhausted, and defeated; she flopped back on the bed and turned her back on the golden sunlight but it still beat heavily against her back. She thought she might cry, but after spending the last week crying herself to sleep, then waking up, then crying for the rest of the day she found she had no tears left. She missed crying. It helped her to feel like she still had something in her: a pit in her stomach to throw up; a lump in her throat that her sobs could expel. Now she was empty. It was as if all emotion and energy, even thought had run dry when her tears had. She was left a shell – drifting about the corridors and room of the Red Keep; going where she was bid; responding whenever someone talked to her in short, quiet answers. She showed the appearance of life but inside felt nothing. Like those dolls her father had given her. Thinking of her father caused something to well up inside of her… but it was gone as soon as it had begun. Now even walking and talking was too much for her. She’d taken to spending all her days in bed staring blankly into space. She shunned all company, even Sandor’s when he tried to get her up or talk to her. The last time they’d spoken properly had been when he told her of the Red Wedding.

They had invited Robb and her mother into their home, given them guest right, and when their guard was down, they had slaughtered them like animals. Her brother; after filling his chest with quarrels and driving a dagger into his chest, they had chopped his head off then sewn the head of Greywind on in its place to parade around for all to mock and jeer at. Her mother; they had slit her throat to the bone then stripped her body and tossed it into the river, blatantly mocking her family’s traditions. Sandor hadn’t told her that. He just told her they’d been murdered by the Freys at her uncle’s wedding, trying to spare her from the gory details. His efforts proved in vain. Joffrey came to find her later to make sure she didn’t miss anything. He told the story with such relish that she couldn’t help but wonder if perhaps he’d made some of it up. She couldn’t quite believe that her mother’s body had been raped before it was disposed of. She supposed it didn’t matter now. They were dead either way.

Ser Loras Tyrell had been escorting Joffrey that day and had darted forward to catch her as she collapsed, the extent of her family’s massacre overwhelming her. Joffrey laughed and told him not to waste his strength but he’d still carried her to her bed and asked her if she wanted anything. _I want the heads of all the men involved in the Red Wedding. I want to drive a dagger into Joffrey’s heart and watch him bleed out. I want to go back in time and stop myself from stupidly telling Cersei my father’s plans. I want to be back safe in Winterfell and for none of this to have ever happened. I WANT MY FAMILY BACK!_ But she just smiled demurely and asked if a cup of water wouldn’t be too much trouble.

Cersei had sent Maester Pycelle to attend on her, making sure that her grief wasn’t putting the baby’s health in jeopardy. He recommended that she continue as she was now: staying in bed to rest, avoiding society and stimulation. A “rest cure” he called it. If she ate a little more than she was now then she should recover in time for the royal wedding. There was that to be thankful for, at least. No one could force her to get up and interact with others, she could stay cocooned in this bed; alone with her grief and nothing and no one else.

The golden light was gradually fading as afternoon melted away into evening. Sansa felt the mattress sag behind her and she recognised without looking, the unmistakable presence of her husband.

“Little bird.”

She didn’t answer. He did this every night. He’d climb in next to her and try to coax some words out of her, try to offer her some comfort. It never worked. She thought the last time she spoke was to thank Loras Tyrell for that cup of water.

“I’ve found a ship.”

That took her by surprise. She’d actually forgotten about their plans to escape. She slowly picked herself up then turned to face him.

“Where will it take us?”  
“Pentos.” _Pentos._ One of the free cities across the narrow sea. Somewhere safe from Joffrey’s taunts and Cersei’s glares. Leagues away from the condescension of the court and the weak-minded nobility. Where she wouldn’t be a pawn in anyone’s game. She could be her own woman, living life on her terms. Not a traitor’s daughter or the key to status and lands and wealth; a woman with a husband she loved and a child to raise as she saw fit. A temporary haven to hide away in until it was safe to return to her family. Except her entire family was dead or missing. She had no one to go to so why should she bother leaving? What was the point?

“What’s the point?” she moaned weakly to Sandor.  
“What’s the point!” He seemed genuinely astonished. “The point is that you’re not safe here while Joffrey reigns, maybe not even after. The point is living our own lives without having to answer to any puffed up shits. The point is getting the hell away from this toxic place before it sucks the life out of us completely.”  
“But without my family, why should I want these things?”  
“Because of this.” He took her hand. “And this.” He placed it over her belly. “You know that I’m so sorry for what those Frey fucks did to your family but it doesn’t mean you’re alone. You have me and I have you, and soon we’ll both have something new to live for. You’ve lost your family but you can make a new one.” Sansa didn’t want to hear that. She tried to turn away from him in anger, but he caught her wrist at the last second.  
“That doesn’t mean you have to forget them. You can still keep them somewhere within you but you have to learn to live without them.”  
“Why? Why do I have to?”  
“Because if you don’t then the Lannisters have won and as far as you’re concerned, they may as well have died years ago.”

Sansa’s hand flew up and struck him across the face.  
“What would you know about it? You never felt any great love for your family, you fled the same day that your father died and you dream of murdering your brother.” She regretted the words as soon as she said them. She expected him to fly into a rage but instead he just surveyed her coolly.

“It’s true that I didn’t get on well with my family, except for one. I loved my sister with all my heart. You know that because I’ve told you. The day Gregor killed her I also wept for days, then completely shut down until the day my father was killed. Then yes, I did flee, because I knew there was nothing left there for me. And there is nothing left here for you. This is not a nest to die in, it’s a nest to fly from. Fly away little bird and live. For them, for me, and for yourself.”

He looked at her, and his eyes were so full of pleading that she felt overcome with shame. Then something clicked inside her. She felt shame. Before that she had felt anger. In the last five minutes Sandor Clegane had made her feel more than she had in the last week. Now she felt something new: she felt hope. She returned his look and said:

“This ship, you’re sure the captain won’t reveal us?” There was a faint glint in his eyes and he replied:  
“As far as he’s concerned there’s nothing to reveal. I’m just a mystery man who’s face he couldn’t see, seeking passage for himself and his wife. He leaves on the night on the wedding. Just two more weeks, little bird, then that’s it. We’ll be gone.”


	14. The Wedding

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The night of Sansa and Sandor's daring escape finally arrives, but will they finally be able to escape Joffrey's tyranny?

Sansa shifted and smoothed down her dress. She was trying to get comfortable but it was a task proving to be impossible in this hot, stuffy overcrowded hall. She’d been sitting for hours taking small bites of each of the seventy-seven dishes that were brought before her, anxiously awaiting the end of the feast when the over-eager crowd would whisk Joffrey and Margaery away for the bedding and she and Sandor would finally have an opportunity to slip away undetected. She shifted her by now numb bottom and fiddled with her moonstone hairnet again. She had planned to wear a net woven with dark purple gems given to her by Dontos but Olenna Tyrell had asked if she could spare it – apparently, she didn’t approve of the gems Megga had chosen for the occasion – and Sansa had been perfectly happy to be rid of it. Any gift given by Littlefinger was bound to be tainted. She could see her now: fussing over Megga’s hair. The net appeared to have slipped slightly. Besides; the moonstones had been a gift from Joffrey and since tonight was the night that she would finally escape him it would be a fitting way to say farewell.

So far, his wedding was proving to be just as torturous as she’d imagined. Joffrey had grown more and more petulant and foul as the day went on, and it had been a long day. At the wedding breakfast; when presented by his uncle with a beautiful illustrated history of all the kings of Westeros (of which there were only five left in the entire seven kingdoms) he’d hacked it to pieces with the sword his grandfather Tywin had gifted him – a sword she doubted he’d ever use in battle. He’d then proceeded to mock her with the death of her family by suggesting that the direwolf engraved on the massive goblet be scratched off and replaced with a flayed man. Now; at what was thankfully the last feast of the day, he was swaggering about, getting progressively more and more drunk, and making every effort to humiliate his uncle Tyrion by parading a pair of jousting dwarves and demanding he act as his royal cupbearer. She’d kept her head down mostly and had even dared hope she might make it through the day without having an unpleasant encounter with Joffrey. Alas, no such luck. He’d snuck up behind her as she was entering the feast, dragged her into a corner and whispered “until tomorrow” then swept away, leaving her shaking in a corner.

To make matters worse, she’d had to bear it without Sandor, who was set to guard the king for the entire day until the bedding ceremony. She cast a longing look up at the dais where he was standing motionless and expressionless behind the newly-weds. He was charged with guarding them until they were taken away to consummate their marriage; at which point he’d be free to join the festivities while ser Balon Swann and Boros Blount would guard the royal bedchamber, entertained by the sweet sound of the royal fucking. Sandor’s plan was that they sneak out while everyone else was distracted by the rowdiness of the bedding ceremony, then slip away onto the boat while everyone in the castle got progressively drunker as the celebrations continued. Until then, Sansa would have to grit her teeth and smile at the moths humming around the music and the food and the copious amount of wine.

She was snapped out of her thoughts by the sound of laughter erupting around the hall. When she turned to see where it was directed, she saw a fountain of red pouring from Joffrey’s absurdly large goblet onto Lord Tyrion’s head. She felt a pang of sympathy for him. She knew what it was to be put on the receiving end of his ire in front of the whole court and it was not an experience she ever wished to be put through again. Hopefully after tonight, her wish would come true.

She watched on as the disgraced little lord gathered up what remained of his dignity and started to exit the hall in an uneven waddle. But Joffrey would not have it.

“Uncle, where are you going? You’re my cupbearer remember?”   
“I need to change into fresh garb, Your Grace. May I have your leave?”   
“No, I like the look of you this way. Serve me my wine.”

And so, he continued to put his own uncle through unspeakable humiliation. Margaery tried to distract him by offering him pigeon pie and pointing out well wishers but Joffrey would not be taken from his reverie. As if he hadn’t made everyone miserable enough, he then demanded that lord Tyrion get on one of the pigs and joust for him; all the while scoffing down his pie and gulping down his wine like the pig he wanted his uncle to ride.

“I want to see, _kof,_ see you ride that, _kof kof,_ pig, Uncle. I want…” He doubled over, starting to cough uncontrollably. Sansa sat up slightly and she saw Sandor tense. _Something is wrong._

“Your Grace?” Margaery seemed concerned.   
“It’s, _kof,_ the pie, noth- _kof,_ pie.” He tried to take a drink but it all came spurting back up in a torrent of crimson. His face seemed to be turning a similar shade. 

“I, _kof,_ I can’t, _kof kof kof_ …”

“He’s choking!” Margaery cried out.

Everything descended into madness. She saw ser Garlan shove Tyrion aside and start pounding on Joffrey’s back. He was then thrown out the way by Sandor who wrapped him in a bear hug from behind then started bouncing him up and down. She could hear shouts of:

“Turn him over!”

“Give him water!”

“Help your king!”

Joffrey was now clawing at his throat, leaving bloody gouges. Margaery was sobbing uncontrollably as her grandmother rocked her back and forth. Cersei had knocked Sandor aside and was now cradling the head of her firstborn son in her lap as she screamed for her help. Joffrey spewed up another scarlet fountain. Had he had more wine? No. It wasn’t wine. It was blood. The High Septon was praying. Tommen was crying. Tyrion was standing. Joffrey was dying. _He is dying._

She allowed herself to be jostled out of the way as the crowd scrambled to get a better look at the dying boy. She felt peculiarly calm. She even let out a small titter. Then she felt a hand clamp around her arm and a voice hissed in her ear:

“My lady, we have to go.”

 _No. I’m not supposed to go with you. I’m escaping with Sandor. Where is he? Where is Sandor?_ By the time she’d finished thinking this she realised her feet were already carrying her away as this stranger led her from the hall. She dug her heels into the floor and tried to pull her arm away but the man held it tight.

“I’m not coming with you.”   
“Yes, you are, now come.”   
“No!” But the man simply yanked her so hard that she lost her balance and Sansa found herself being half dragged, half carried away. She looked around desperately for someone to help but of course, everyone was distracted with the commotion of the king dying. Her eyes darted around searching for Sandor but he was hidden by the crowd. He’d still be with Joffrey as his sworn shield. Would he even think to look for her in all the commotion? Nothing was going to plan.

She tried to shout for help but was drowned out by an almost inhuman wail of pain. It was like nothing she’d ever heard before. It was the terrible sound of someone whose whole world had been ripped away from her before her very eyes. The man’s hand clamped over her mouth and he held her firm against him. She thrashed and kicked but it was no use, they were out into the corridor. Silent as a shadow; the man dragged her away as Cersei’s cries echoed off the walls, through the Redkeep, and out into the city.


	15. The Bells

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will Sandor catch Sansa's abductor? Will they finally be able to escape Kings Landing?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well... this is it. The end of my first story. Thank you so much to everyone who's read this, left kudos and comments. You've really made this a positive and memorable experience. Hope you enjoy this last chapter and stay posted to hear more about the series.

Sansa felt cold air hit her face. They must be outside the Keep. Her abductor had blindfolded her and bound her hands together so she couldn’t tell exactly where they were but judging from the sound of horses neighing and the smell of manure, she guessed they were at the stables. The man shoved her forcefully against a wall.

“Stay here” he hissed at her and moved off. She could hear a horse whinny nearby. If he got her on a horse then there’d be nothing she could do. She wouldn’t dare struggle off it for the sake of the child growing inside of her and whoever this man was could whisk her away anywhere on horse-back. He’d let his guard down now, now was her only chance to get away. She couldn’t tell where she was going but she’d figure that out later. Now her only priority was getting as far away from this man as possible.

She’d only run a few feet when she felt a fist grip her by the hair. She cried out in pain but was quickly silenced by a hand over her mouth, and the man was pressing her firmly against him as she thrashed and struggled, dragging her back towards his horse and then he’d take her away to whoever wanted to use her as a pawn next. Suddenly, she felt him stiffen then slump against her. Something hot and sticky was trickling into her hair and down the back of her neck. Then the man was falling and dragging her down with him, but another hand caught her and gently lowered her to the ground. She didn’t struggle against this hand. She already knew who it was.

“Sansa.” She heard the sound of steel being drawn then the rope binding her wrists fell away. She quickly removed her blindfold and found her eyes drawn to the man who’d tried to kidnap her; lying on the ground, blood running from his throat and mingling with the dirt. She hadn’t had a chance to get a good look at him. He had red hair – almost as red as hers, and he was pale, but perhaps that was just the blood loss. Sansa’s eyes snapped back to Sandor’s as he tried to shake the shock out of her.

“Probably one of the rodents working for Littlefinger. Are you hurt?” She shook her head. “Then come on. We need to go now.” Sandor took her hand and led her to his horse: Stranger who was saddled nearby. He helped her up then mounted in front of her and together they rode off into the night.

\---

They reached the harbour without much trouble. Riding in front of her allowed Sandor to quickly cut down anyone who looked twice at them. The captain was waiting outside the Siren’s Wail just as promised and greeted them both courteously. They both kept their hoods up high to stop him from seeing their faces clearly, which also helped to disguise the blood matting Sansa’s head and neck. The captain paled when he saw the size of Stranger but an assurance from Sandor of his good behaviour placated him, for now. They set sail within the hour.

As soon as they reached their cabin, Sandor sent for a bowl of warm water so Sansa could wash the blood off her. She rinsed her hair and neck in silence; him watching her from the bed. Eventually he spoke:

“If you’re already washing your hair, I got you this.” He handed her a jar full of black gel. “It’s hair dye. When they realise you’re gone, they’re gonna send everyone word of a girl with blue eyes and auburn hair. This way no eyes will immediately go to you.”

Sansa stared at the black gunk in the small jar and all of a sudden it was too much. Joffrey’s death, almost being kidnapped, being rescued, leaving Westeros behind and now she was going to have to be someone else again. She muttered her excuses and left the cabin; stopping only to pick up a scarf to cover her hair with. She doubted the captain (being a foreigner) would recognise her as Sansa Stark, but it never hurt to be cautious.

When she emerged on deck the sky was navy, specked with silver; and Kings Landing was receding into the distance. She liked watching it disappear – it calmed the thoughts whirring around in her head. She felt sorry for Sandor; he must have felt awful after she stormed out like that but she couldn’t help it. The idea of having to obscure herself underneath that black paint had been too much for her to bear. She’d spent so long in the Red Keep feeling uncomfortable in her own skin: always having to put up a front that was so different from what she stored inside; always chirping back other people’s opinions; never being allowed to have any of her own; never having an outlet for her thoughts. Until she met Sandor. She could talk to Sandor, and he’d listen. Even before they were married he’d always seen past the front she put on, heard the thoughts underneath the chirping, and had called her out on it when they were alone. Even though it had scared her; it had also been comforting to have someone who recognised her as she was and didn’t object to it. And he’d still do that now. He’d have to put on a front to people too; leaving the Hound and Sandor Clegane behind to build up a new front. But they’d still keep the real “them” behind a locked door for only them to see.

_CLANG! CLANG! CLANG! CLANG! CLANG! CLANG! CLANG!_

Sansa had only ever heard those bells once before: when King Robert died. That could only mean one thing… it was official. Joffrey was dead. She grinned and went back to the cabin.

Sandor stood when he saw her.

“Did you hear them?”   
“Aye, little bird.”   
“He’s really dead then.”   
“I know. I was there when he breathed his last. I saw it happen.”

He didn’t have time to say anything more as Sansa leapt on him: wrapping her arms around his neck; and her legs around his waist. Sandor caught her easily and she caught him in a searing, demanding kiss. He returned it with a fury that matched hers. When she nipped a little at his lower lip he let out an almost demonic laugh and pressed her against the wall, instead of on the bed which was where she thought they’d end up. They quickly shed their clothing and he turned her around and took her from behind with a furious passion until the memory of the wedding, of the poisoning, of Joffrey, of Cersei, of anyone but themselves in this room, in this moment was gone. When they came simultaneously; she let out an ear-piercing scream and he joined in with a roar that they were sure could be heard all the way back in Kings Landing above the clanging of the bells.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew! That's it then. Writing this has been so much fun and, as I mentioned before, I do plan to turn this into a series. I'll probably take some time out first and write some other things. Perhaps some Star Trek Next Generation stuff. Thanks again for all of your support and stay tuned for the next installment: The Alliance.


End file.
